


Five Times the Love

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drabbles, F/F, Relationship Study, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Series, Series of Oneshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 14:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14956482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Five times Vera Bennett fell in love with Joan Ferguson.





	1. i. she thinks it's love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLexFiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLexFiles/gifts).



> I've been working on this piece for months and finally finished it... For clarification, I originally wrote this on one of my blogs. The original meme was "five times my muse fell in love with yours." Gifted to my friend, Lexie, since she and I write Joan and Vera.
> 
> Each chapter is a different one shot and flows across S2-S4 for clarification. Mind you, each chapter is intentionally short. Enjoy.

In the garden among the roses, a modern Socrates and Plato – a resurrected Dante and Virgil – begin the lesson plan. Prison was Governor Ferguson’s palace to rule. Overseeing the work of the women, Governor and Deputy stroll at an even pace. Vera doesn’t struggle to catch up with Miss Ferguson. She’s learning. While Joan is on the topic of correction, Vera listens in her currently enamored state. The breathy way in which she speaks lures her in like bait on a hook. It’s a piercing sensation. She’s cultured and knowledgeable, capable of quoting the classics and spill the truths of a long game. She is everything Vera wants to be. 

Admiration and reverence tangled together like the lethal snare of vines. Without the gloves, Joan pinches a silken, red petal. She looks over the garden with the satisfaction of a creator. The petal shrivels from her touch and falls to the ground. Her Deputy swears that Joan grimaces – at least, a twitch of her lips could be perceived as such. Joan lets go, only to snap her fingers at Vera. The roses in the garden are corrupt, tainted like the inmates. 

‘ Vera, are you listening _?_ ‘ 

Blinking, she jolts back to attention. A deep flush of embarrassment tints the tips of her ears and her cheeks. Vera feels hope. For herself, for the women. She mistakes it for love. Seduced by reason and order, a crush manifests.  

‘ Yes, Guv’na. ‘ 

With a nod, Joan walks and Vera follows. 

She thinks it’s love. 


	2. ii. she knows it's love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only separated the chapters/parts since I didn't want a wall of text.

A wolf surprises a lamb sore from growing her own set of teeth. On her doorstep, Governor Ferguson holds up a bag of takeaway. She looks surprisingly domestic in that earthen, near sheer blouse and a satchel over her shoulder. It’s a sight Vera could easily become accustomed to. She feels a twinge in her chest and steps aside to grant Carmilla entry.

The food waits on the counter while Vera rushes in to  _take care of her mother_   **{** it’s become a curse for her, an ugly word  **}**. Mum spits out her medication and gripes about Vera’s Florence Nightingale act. Vera fears that she is an impostor, a fake, and everyone knows it. Guiltily, her shoulders slump down.

Seated beside Rita, Joan intervenes. One malevolent entity grapples with another. She squeezes Rita’s frail hand riddled with varicose veins. Joan leans forward, whispers a mystery that will be buried alive with her.

Wilted, Vera leans against the doorframe. Watches the exchange. Her heart pounds wildly in her ears. A worn smile slips into place. She looks at Joan as if she’s the next fucking messiah

She knows it’s love.


	3. iii. she believes it's love

Another midnight debrief. Another midnight hour where she wants to scream for more, more,  _more_. Vodka tonics replace mint leaves and mojitos. Ice clinks. Condensation clings to the glass. Every single time, Vera can’t fathom how Joan isn’t drunk. Maybe her height’s a factor, maybe it’s her Russian blood, but Vera’s too hammered to theorize.

This time, she picks up on the slight slur that accentuates Joan’s voice. She giggles and sets down her empty glass. Joan loosens her tie. Vera’s blouse opens, exposing her throat and collarbone. The Governor looks at her as if she’s going to flay her, eat her alive, and suck the marrow from her bones. Vera feels heat, strange and confusing. She wants it to happen.

A firm, strong hand squeezes her thigh. She slides forward and scoots toward the edge of her seat. Wetting her lips, she aspires for a chaste kiss, but receives  _more_. More means teeth and tongue and gasping for air with Joan’s hair falling into her face, shrouding her like a veil.

She believes it’s love.


	4. iv. she swears it's love

A silken scarf with a pattern of butterflies covers up her scrawny neck. Vera checks in at the front desk. The nurse asks if she’s family. How she wants to laugh at that. Instead, she smiles and shakes her head. Says ‘no.’ This isn’t how she expected the governorship would fall into her lap. Despite burning down half of Wentworth, despite the razorblade betrayal, she visits Joan at the psych ward.

She sits at the round table like it’s a skewed version of the Last Supper. Purged of all feeling in a catatonic state, the medication masks Joan Ferguson. It’s hard to look at, harder to say. Vera squirms in discomfort, she’s trying to stay for all the battles, but this is somehow worse than when she visited Fletch. Vera tries to think about what Joan is thinking -  _really_  thinking. Joan wears an expressionless expression as the portrait of vacancy. 

“I fought your battles. I did what you asked of me. I learned everything you chose to teach me. It wasn’t enough. _I_  wasn’t enough.”

As she reaches across the table, her hand covers Joan’s. Curiously, this ghost of Joan looks at the hand, but doesn’t make a cruel, jabbing remark with a sharp tongue. She would have preferred that. It’s easier to comfort stone. This is the danger of falling in love with a switchblade.

Vera doesn’t expect a response. She expects glassy eyes and parted lips. Her face reddens from the pain of holding back tears. Instead, she chooses to steel herself. Her anger swallows her. She

 _Come back to me_ , she wants to plead.  _Show me the way._

“I’ll be back tomorrow… to check on you.”

She leaves behind the scent of her perfume, but not the betrayal. That still stings.

She swears it’s love.


	5. v. she calls it love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is the longest lol.

Baptized in a river of fire, Governor Bennett runs Wentworth with compassion unlike her predecessors. Despite all her wrongdoings, she doesn’t stray far from protocol (so she claims). With Vera’s former mentor on remand, Joan Ferguson has yet to be laid to earth. So, it’s an old game of cat and mouse. To Carthage, a devil of a woman comes. She only lives to inflict pain.

No morally superior position exists within this circumstance. She wants to wish her away – to will her _away_ from this prison. Tension radiates like heat from Vera’s body. Alone, under the cover of night, she approaches the unit with a letter in hand. Addressed to Shayne Riley and scribbled with a no. 2 pencil, the letter has a weight to it. It crumbles within Vera’s grasp. The dim lighting of the isolation unit gives her a waxen complexion. She feels the tug in her chest, her heart, her soul. And realizes that the feeling is **still** there.

There is something refined yet synthetic about Joan. Some things remain constant: Joan is always pale, Joan is always scheming. Her vantablack hair greys at an alarming rate. Her mane falls into her face like some god-awful fury. She plans her revenge. Plays the long game and patiently awaits the opportune moment to  _dismantle_  Vera Bennett.

From profound misunderstandings, they invented stories: always a matter of who hurt who. The riot, siding with Westfall { re: Westnull }, disappoinTment, Jianna’s ghost. Neither woman can skirt around the fact that they’re inherently flawed. All this collateral damage resembles a haphazard rollercoaster ride. She hides the hurt and lets it manifest as something new. Through the anger, she still loves her.

“You can be so cruel,” Vera says and the words shine in her eyes like cut diamonds.

Vera feigns disinterest, holding up the letter before ripping it to shreds. She does it to elicit some reaction – any emotion – out of Joan. It’s akin to prodding a hornet’s nest or cutting yourself in the deep, blue sea where a great white catches a trace. Vera maintains that glare though her insides twist and she wants to vomit. The fragments fall to the ground like snow. Joan stands. Her shadow packs a punch, dragging across the smaller woman.

“You’ll regret that.” Joan hisses with acidity infecting her once dulcet voice.

“You can’t touch me,” Vera counters. She buries her hands into her pockets to hide the way they tremble. Things will escalate: Joan will be put in Proctor’s unit, Joan will try to kill Bea, Joan will succeed, and then what? The document ensuring protective custody will be neglected for the long game they both play.

_You didn’t think you administered her death sentence._

Warped and twisted, that’s the danger of falling in love with a switchblade. Fucked up people do fucked up things, Vera isn’t expelled from the fact. Maybe she wants to keep Ferguson with her, by her side, either as a reminder of better days, as penitence, or as a reminder of the profound depth to their relationship.

Vera chooses not to dwell on it, not now. Joan won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. She walks away. Leaves her in the dark.

She calls it love.


End file.
